


Tea and Scones

by Kwizzic



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Cultstuck, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 09:09:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4999027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kwizzic/pseuds/Kwizzic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A yellowblooded troll kid walks into a cult-run computer servicing joint, and immediately regrets it.</p><p>Inspired by Cultstuck!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea and Scones

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Cultstuck!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/293686) by [elanor_pam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elanor_pam/pseuds/elanor_pam). 



> This is a recursive fanfic of Cultstuck! It will not make any sense whatsoever unless you go and read that first. Which you really totally should, since it is an awesome story written by someone far more talented than I could ever hope to be. 
> 
> This fanfic is based off of Sollux's recounting of his interaction with the Cult before the events of Cultstuck. It probably isn't canon compatible, but I just had to give it a shot anyway. :)

== > Be the yellowblooded troll kid.

You are now SOLLUX CAPTOR, and you are really questioning your own judgment.

It had seemed like a good idea this evening. This evening, when you’d been in the middle of dismantling your hives after staying up three days in a row and you’d only just realized that to get the level of performance you wanted out of the damn thing, you’d need a whole new honeycomb filter. Not just whatever cheap knock-off you could scrounge at the military resale store; no, you needed a dorsata plate.

Dorsata plate, which is rare and expensive, and also flat-out illegal for a yellowblood like you.

Well, you’d given it some thought and made up your mind to find it anyway. Laws haven’t stopped you much in the past- if you paid attention to what you were and weren’t allowed to do, you’d never have gotten anything done. 

So you’d considered your options. 

There was no way you could find a piece that rare at your usual black market hangouts. Bribing a highblood contact to buy one for you would work in theory, except the highest bloods you know are Gamzee, Equius, and Vriska, and you don’t trust any of them further than you could throw them without psionics. 

But there was one thing you hadn’t tried yet.

Look, you’d heard some rumors, okay? Among the lowbloods, mostly, rust and brown and never anyone higher than yellow, and yeah, that made sense because if they were even a little true, then this was seriously, lethally illegal stuff. 

Namely, the Grey Cultists. 

From bits and pieces here and there, you’ve gathered that they’re a freakish sect of cull-dodgers who reject the hemospectrum entirely. That alone would be grounds for mass elimination if someone managed to track them down. But just as bad in the eyes of the Empire are the cultists’ activities on the side- selling seriously potent medicine and high-tech gear, and even buckets of pre-mixed slurry on the cheap.

So you’d figured, hell, why not give it a shot? A few surreptitious inquiries to some lowblood techie contacts later, you had directions to the current parts store. 

Now you’re staring up at a sheer cliff and reconsidering.

There’s a narrow, winding stair carved into the cliff side, almost invisible from below. If you didn’t already know it was there, you’d have missed it entirely. Now, squinting, you can just barely make out its path- up to an innocuous-looking crack in the rock. 

You shiver a little, and not just from the cold sea wind. 

This isn’t just a normal black market tech joint, you realize with a sudden thrill of nerves. This is a defensible position. These people aren’t playing at treason- they know their shit. Even if someone tipped off the threshcutioners about the secret staircase and the illegal stash, they could be gone without a trace in minutes. 

Your heart is beating in your mouth as you slowly start climbing the stairs. 

They’d better have that fucking plate, you think. 

You almost stumble a few times: the stairs are rough-hewn and so narrow only a kid like you has a chance of making it all the way up easily. A threshcutioner cadet, even at eight sweeps, would have to cling to the rock face and edge up slowly. 

At last, you reach the top. The crack in the cliff looms, and you feel a sudden surge of apprehension. It’s not too late to turn back. Those creepy cultists mean serious business, and you’re really not sure you want to get involved. 

The thought of the dorsata plate spurs you on.

You summon your confidence and walk inside the cave.

And stare.

“’Sup?” greets the troll behind the counter. He’s not much older than you are- maybe seven-and-a-half sweeps at a guess. He’s wearing a weird gray cloak without a caste sign on it, but his iris chroma must be coming in already because he’s wearing dark sunglasses and looking like an absolute dork. 

“The fuck?” you mutter, looking around. “I don’t think I have the right place.”

Because yeah, there’s slabs of silicomb and apiary mainframes and jars of mind honey all around, but there’s also fucking lacy things, like you don’t even know what the hell they’re supposed to be- is that, like a doily? Is it crocheted? And there’s paint on the walls, which would be hugely creepy because they have all the colors, and how many grubs do you have to kill to get a full palette, but the effect is kind of fucking ruined because who paints flowers and swirls on the walls of a black market parts joint?

Counter Dude regards you with amusement. “If you’re looking for parts, then you’ve got the right stash. Can I help you?”

“I fucking doubt it,” you grumble, with another skeptical look around the store.

“Give it a shot. Whatcha lookin’ for?”

With a sigh, you approach the counter, and the ineffably cheerful troll standing behind it.

==> Be the counter dude

You are now the counter dude. 

You do have a name- two of them, actually. Your first name was given to you as a wiggler in the breeding caves by a disinterested secredocumentarian, to be made official once you survived your trials and were registered as an actual troll instead of a statistic. Your second name was given to you once you joined the Followers, as a kind of rebirth into the ways of the Sufferer. 

Neither of your names matter here, in the computer parts joint: business is strictly anonymous.

A few minutes ago you’d heard footsteps on the stairs and promptly perked up. 

So far that night, you hadn’t had a lot of sales. You were a secret organization, after all. If trolls were always coming by, someone would notice. On the other hand, the hours spent minding the counter with an empty shop were dull, even if you were giving your time in service of the Sufferer. At least customers provided some entertainment.

A kid walks in, glancing around.

He’s pretty small- not more than six sweeps, with bifurcated horns and shades with mismatched lenses. Not someone you’ve seen around before. Your eyes flick to the insignia on his shirt before you can stop yourself- old habits die hard. A yellowblood, then; not that it matters.

He glances around, gaze lingering on you, then on the paintings and tapestries. “The fuck?” he mutters under his breath. “I don’t think I have the right place.”

He’s eying the doilies with deep suspicion, like he can’t imagine why anyone would set up shop in a cave and then try to make the place look decent. To be fair, it’s not an uncommon reaction from outsiders. You hide a smile. 

“If you’re looking for parts, then you’ve got the right stash. Can I help you?”

He glances up at you balefully. “Fucking doubt it.”

“Give it a shot. Whatcha lookin’ for?” you cajole, because business is business.

He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I need a new apiary plate,” he admits, sounding cross with himself.

That explains why he’s here. Apiary plates are restricted military surplus; available by official requisition to a limited hemospectrum range. You hide a sympathetic wince- he sure as hell wouldn’t appreciate your pity, however platonic.

“I see,” you say instead. “As for what’s running cheapest, I can set you up with a standard cerana frame for twenty. But if you’re looking to improve your silicomb performance, we’ve got high-density melifera plates that’ll work for almost anything.”

He makes scornful sound, and you swear he looks condescending.

“You’re kidding, right?” he says scathingly. “I’ve got twenty melifera plateth lying around in my hive. I’m only here becauthe my florea filter wathn’t cutting it.”

You whistle. “Florea? That’s some apiary capacity. I guess you’re looking to upgrade to dorsata?”

“Of courth. What do you have?”

“We got models E-1001 and A2000 for twenty-five to thirty caegars,” you offer. “And the whole G line except the G-48 for fifty.”

He nods approvingly. “Good thelection. How about G-75 for forty?”

You grin. “No can do, friend. Flat fifty caegars for the plate. But I’ll throw in a slab of wax, free of charge.”

“Add three poundth of thilicomb and you have a deal,” he counters.

“You were looking for silicomb? I can’t give that free, but I’ll discount you to a caegar a pound. You won’t find that deal anywhere else.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Wanna bet?”

“Not for quality silicomb, you won’t,” you amend. “We’re talking brand new material; goes for three caegars a pound on the black market. Or you could get a used comb at two pounds a caegar, and call it even.”

He hesitates- then shrugs. “Fifty-two caegarth for the plate, the waxth, and three poundth of thilicomb?”

“Deal.”

He nods, looking satisfied. “Ring it up, then.”

You fetch the silicomb- it’s already wrapped by the pound in the back storeroom, and then you hack off a quarter pound of wax from the block and roll it up in brown paper. You stack them on the counter and ring them up. 

“I’m gonna have to call someone in to fetch the dorsata plate,” you say, already pressing a button to signal the back room. 

He hums agreement, inspecting the wax with a critical eye. 

You don’t remember who’s on call today- an elder? Inditer, probably. One of those older trolls that barely ever comes out of the catacombs. Man, you wouldn’t take that job if you were begged to by the Grand Elder himself. Sure, it’s a huge honor to be a guardian of the Scripture, and to be allowed to see and serve the Sufferer Reborn in person. You’ve only heard stories and songs about him. But being stuck in the depths of the Dark Hive, never talking to anyone except other Followers? You’d go shithive in a week. 

There’s a creak and the hidden door in the wall slides open. The elder is carrying the dorsata plate, and you’re relieved to see that he clearly knows what he’s doing; gently he lowers the plate to the counter, and-

“Fuck,” wheezes the troll kid.

It’s a sharp exhale more than an expletive- the kid’s turned ashen gray, jerks back a few feet, braces himself.

There’s a crackle in the air- he’s a psionic, shit- and the kid yanks off his red-and-blue shades to reveal red-and-blue eyes, and he’s already starting to glow violet. His eyes dart from you, to the Elder, to the dorsata plate.

It’s cool, you remind yourself. It’s cool. He’s only a kid. Probably doesn’t have enough power to do any real damage. Just gotta calm him down.

You turn to the Elder slowly- no sudden movements, no loud noises-

“O blessed night!” the elder suddenly intones, voice quavering like he’s about to cry. “It’s true, by the light of the green moon!”

The kid takes another stumbling step back- his psionics flicker and fade. He’s left silent and gaping, abjectly bewildered and still looking kind of terrified.

“He has returned to us,” whispers the elder. His face twists- he’s overcome with some kind of emotion. “That I, unworthy, should be blessed by his holy presence! O Illuminator of the Darkened, Confessor cursed with Life, Inheritor of all Destruction!”

His voice is steadily climbing in both volume and pitch. The kid looks about ready to take off, dorsata plate or no.

You have no clue what is going on.

You do know, however, the solution to most problems.

“All right, Elder,” you say firmly. “Take a few deep breaths. Have a seat, why don’t you.”

You take his elbow and guide him to a chair, then hook another stool with your foot, pulling it in front of the counter. “There, that’s right.”

The elder nods, eyes still fixed on the troll kid. He looks like he’s about to start crying, so you politely offer him a chroma-absorbing handkerchief; he takes it with a nod and presses carefully under his tinted glasses.

“What’th wrong with him?” croaks the troll kid.

Oh, shit. Yeah, he was still freaking out, wasn’t he?

“Why don’t I make some tea?” you say decisively. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. Sit down. I think I have some scones in the back. No, Lord Elder, I insist you stay put.”

You maneuver the kid into a chair- he’s staring up at you like you fell from the sky. “Tea?”

“I think it’ll do nicely,” you agree. “Do you prefer grubjam or butter with your scones? There, now, Elder, just calm down a moment- I think I’ll bring both, so you can choose. Please, stay; I’ll just be a minute.”

As you hurry down the tunnel to fetch the tea supplies and the scones, you bump into another Elder approaching- Elder Flint, you think you recall. She’s frowning. 

“I thought I heard a commotion. Is everything all right?”

“Ah, sorry to bother you,” you say quickly. “Elder Inditer’s having- a bit of a moment, I guess you could say. He started reciting the Prayer to the Psiioniic out of nowhere and I thought some tea might calm him down.”

“I’ll go see what I can do,” she says, squinting down the dark of the tunnel.

“There’s no need-“ you begin, but she’s already gone down the tunnel. Better yet, more grey-cloaked heads are peeking out of side chambers toward you, and they all seem curious.

Better just fetch the tea.

By the time you return, Elder Flint is staring and Elder Inditer is crying into your handkerchief again.

“A sign!” he’s declaring in between sobs. “That he should appear before us today! The First to Heed the Call of the Sufferer! Companion to the Disciple, twice-born, twin star of the Night! The red of His Blood and the blue of-“

“Brownberry or plain?” you ask, setting the teapot down on the table.

Elder Inditer can’t answer- he’s overcome with emotion. Elder Flint is gazing, evidently awe-stricken, at the troll kid. And the troll kid- he’s hugging his elbows and leaning away from Inditer. He looks at you with some relief.

“Thorry, what did you thay?”

“Scones; you want brownberry or plain?” You gesture vaguely at the teapot. “It’ll be a few minutes before the tea is ready.”

“Um.”

“One of each, then.” You place the scones in front of him briskly, and firmly press another one into Elder Inditer’s hand. “You’ll find them a little dry, I know, but the tea should be done soon. Please, eat; they were baked fresh this morning.”

“I should go,” Elder Flint says, standing hurriedly and bowing. “I- I am so deeply honored.”

“Take a scone?” you offer- but she’s already gone down the tunnel. 

The kid is staring at the scones in front of him numbly, still ash-grey without the faintest trace of gold in his cheeks. His tongue flicks out to moisten his dry lips; it’s forked near the tip. Between that and the fangs, it’s no wonder he’s got a lisp. 

“So,” you begin, pouring a cup of tea. “Not every day we get someone coming in looking for a dorsata plate. You must have a really high-density apiary setup running.”

His eyes seem to refocus a little. “Yeah, more or leth. I program with ~ATH, though, tho I really don’t want to overtaxth my hive.”

You nod encouragingly. “I’m not so much a programmer- I know my way around an apiary mainframe, but coding’s pretty far beyond me.”

He shrugs. “~ATH programth uthe a lot of hive capathity. I have a friend who trieth coding with ~ATH on a regular huthktop. And the idiot wonderth why it keepth exploding.”

“Yeah?”

He’s relaxing a little at last, and nibbling at his scone. You chance a quick look at Elder Inditer- he’s, well. He’s still mumbling under his breath and dabbing the handkerchief under his eyes, but at least he’s not rocking back and forth and shaking the table.

“Yeah,” the kid agrees. “But then, it’th probably altho becauthe KK suckth at programming. He keepth trying to write me virutheth, but the latht one he thent actually improved my backup therver.”

You nod and refill his cup of tea. “So—“

“Is it true?” someone whispers hoarsely.

You turn to glance at the back tunnel. Three of your fellow Followers are clustered there, staring unabashedly at the troll kid. One of them- Flash Wing, he always was a little over-anxious- is faltering like he’s about to pull off a full genuflection. A female troll you aren’t familiar with tugs on his sleeve and shakes her head.

You’re beginning to wonder if there’s something you’ve missed.

“Care for some tea?” You offer politely. “I’ve only got three cups, but there are more in the break room if you’ll fetch them.”

The third Follower, Dusk Whistler, shakes her head mutely.

“We should- we have to-“ says the second troll, glancing back at the tunnel indecisively. “-tell the others-“

Flash Wing swallows, and whispers, “It’s, um, an honor.”

Then, abruptly, Dusk Whistler yanks the other two back into the tunnel. You hear them whispering, but you can’t make out what they’re saying. Their receding footsteps echo faintly down the tunnel. 

“Did He send you?” Elder Inditer demands suddenly, staring pleadingly at the troll kid. “Is it a message? Have we pleased Him with our service?”

“I-I, um,” the troll kid stutters, recoiling. “What?”

“Have some more tea, Elder,” you interject firmly. “Please. It will soothe your nerves.”

He nods shakily and takes a gulp from his cup. You pat his back absentmindedly and turn back to the kid.

“Sorry, what were we talking about? ~ATH programming? That’s mostly used for viruses and hacking, right?”

He nods, looking a little cagey, and doesn’t answer.

You admonish yourself silently. What kind of conversation starter is that? Of course he’s not going to want to talk about his highly illegal extracurriculars with a complete stranger and an adult troll. That’s just not the black market policy. Anyone could be an undercover interrogarroter. 

“It’s a pity there’s always a risk of hive collapse when you overextend,” you offer again. “Organic computation is really pretty detail-oriented.”

That seems to be a better conversation starter. He furrows his brow. “Well, yeah, but it’th not like there’th any alternative.”

Shit. Right, you keep forgetting that metallic computation is a Cult thing. 

“Well, if you could- hypothetically, of course- come up with a metallic device that transmitted electrical signals…” you trail off. You’re not actually very familiar with the Messenger’s technology. There’s a reason you sell silicomb- apiary design’s always been your specialty. 

But the kid looks interested. “Huh. Thoundth cool. I mean, kinda impractical, but thtill-“

\--

Once you get him talking in that vein, he continues on for a while without much prompting. You nod appreciatively when he makes a good point and clarify ‘hypothetical’ details to the best of your ability, and continue to serve tea and scones to your guests. There’s a steady stream of Followers at the tunnel entrance, but usually all they do is pause surreptitiously to stare at the wiggler for a few moments before hurrying on.

After the conversation peters out at last, you stand to go pack the dorsata plate. He follows you to the counter, eyes fixed worriedly on the filter as you wrap it. 

“Fifty-two caegarth, right?” he asks, reaching for his sylladex.

You shake your head. “Nah. Forty-five and we’ll call it even.”

“Really?” He seems skeptical. “Thought you thaid plateth were an even fifty?”

“Yeah, but that was before-“ you gesture vaguely. “All that happened. With all the inconvenience, it’s only decent to give you a discount.”

He shrugs. “I’m not arguing.”

Forty-five caegars change hands, and the kid places the dorsata plate in his sylladex with the utmost gentleness. The wax and the silicomb go in as well, but he’s rather more careless with those.

“Thankth.”

“Oh, take the rest of the scones, too,” you insist, pressing the bag into his hands. “The least I can do.”

He stares at it uncomprehendingly for a moment, then nods with a tiny smile. “Uh. Thankth. They were really good, by the way. The thconeth, I mean.”

“Sure- hey, come back soon, if you can. We’ll have another shipment coming in just a few perigees.”

He hesitates for a moment. “Uh. Right.”

Then he flees, with one wary glance back at the Elder. 

You wave a polite farewell and begin to clear up the tea set from the table. You’re brushing the crumbs from the scones into your hand when the elder stirs, composing himself. He hands your handkerchief back; you tuck it in your sylladex with a note to wash it later.

“It’s such an honor,” he croaks.

You hum noncommittally. “Care for more tea?”

“No, no- thank you.” He sighs deeply. “I never thought I would live to see this day. The Psiioniic reborn. Truly, the child had all of his ancestor’s fearsome presence, his duality of shadow and light-“

You pause, processing the Elder’s words for the first time that night. “Wait, what?”

“'He of golden blood, first to heed the call of the Sufferer’,” the Elder hums quietly. “''Returning to his place among the stars.'”

You stare. “You mean- that kid was-“

“A True Descendant,” the Elder agrees. “Of course.”

Your knees go weak, and you sit heavily on your stool. You think, vaguely, that you need some soothing tea.

\--

==> Be SOLLUX CAPTOR

You are Sollux Captor, and you are never, ever going back there.


End file.
